


Broken Slats

by wiseturtle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief Mentions of Burnings, Gen, Gratuitous Amounts of Imagery, Revelations, Witch Hunts, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 07:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15019463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiseturtle/pseuds/wiseturtle
Summary: “Are you sure this is the place?”Uther pulls a knife from the sheath on his hip. “Yes.”





	Broken Slats

**Author's Note:**

> I have once again actually finished a work. I'm proud of myself. It's really late, almost three in the morning, but it's summer so I have an excuse.

The little house is falling apart. The paint is peeling and the roof is sagging and the wooden porch creaks dangerously when Uther Pendragon and his son step onto it. The glass of the windows is tinted brown with age, and the shutters hang loosely from their hinges. The garden is overgrown, plants spilling onto the pathway and vines curling up the fences and walls. A tree stands to the side, half dead and limbs drooping. A tire swing hangs from a thick but rotted limb. The porch is littered with broken flower pots and spilled dirt.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Arthur asks, voice low out of instinct to keep the still silence of the house. It certainly doesn’t look like it could be lived in, but someone desperate would see it as a safe haven. The witch they are hunting is definitely desperate.

Uther pulls a knife from the sheath on his hip. “Yes,” he says, just as quiet as his son. His steps are careful as he makes his way to the door. He turns the handle, and the door swings open with a loud squeal.

“Unlocked.” Arthur states, drawing his own weapon.

They cautiously enter. The door opened to a cramped entryway, with slim arches leading to other rooms. The space is crowded with a rotting bookcase and broken picture frames. Through one door, they can see a living room. Through another, a kitchen. There is a glass conservatory through the door on the right, and what might have been a study beside that.

The living room is filled with dust and mildewing couches. A broken clock reads 6:37, and a dusty glass vase holds wilted flowers on the coffee table. The kitchen is dull with age. A chipped teapot is sitting on the stove and other broken china is displayed on the shelves. The tile, which may have been sunny yellow at some point, is almost grey with age. The study holds a sagging desk and tons of books whose pages were yellow and thin, and the observatory holds two chairs, which would probably be the best place to sit in the morning and enjoy the sun.

The light that comes through the windows is honey brown, staining everything within gold. Uther and Arthur look around carefully, searching for any signs of a presence, any disturbance in the dust. They find nothing, but there is a staircase at the end of the entryway. The floors creak with every step they take.

When they reach the top of the landing, they see movement in the corner of their eyes. Uther, whose reflexes are sharp with experience, hurls his knife at the movement. Arthur watches it soar through the air, grazing the ear of the witch, who just barely manages to duck to avoid a lethal blow, and embedding itself into the soft wood of the wall.

The witch lets out a startled whimper and dashes into the room at the end of the hall. Uther is quick to give chase, Arthur only a step behind him. The door slammed shut behind the witch, but Uther has no trouble bashing it in. The witch is pressed against the wall, like a cornered animal, but before Uther can throw his blade again, the witch throws out his hand and Uther is slammed against the wall. He struggles violently against the invisible hand holding him down.

The witch takes advantage of Arthur’s alarm and concern for his father to dash past him, shoving him violently out of the way. Uther yells for Arthur to go after the witch, and Arthur can’t disobey a direct command like that.

The witch has gone into the other bedroom, and he is planted firmly in front of the closet. It is definitely the witch they have been tracking for the past two weeks. His hair is black, curling against his forehead and around his ears with sweat. His skin is pasty white, and the blood trickling down from the cut on his ear is striking against it. His eyes, his frighteningly beautiful, blue eyes, are steady on Arthur, shining with fear and determination.

Arthur has his knife gripped tightly in his hand. He doesn’t have the skill or accuracy of his father when it comes to throwing knives. He is better at close range, but he is hesitant to get close with no knowledge of the extent of the witch's powers. His father is still being held against the wall, Arthur can still hear him cursing, so any spells the witch sends at Arthur will be weakened by his split focus, but this witch has slipped through their fingers so many times. He needs to be careful.

Arthur waits for the witch to make the first move, but he doesn’t. He simply stands in front of the louvered doors like a sentry. The doors are unable to close all the way, and there are holes where the slats have broken. Through these holes, Arthur thinks he can see movement.

The witch, who has been watching him with rapt eyes, immediately notices Arthur looking at the doors curiously, and the fear in his eyes intensifies. He widens his stance, and shifts his body to block Arthur’s view. He’s protecting something, something very much alive.

“What are you hiding?” Arthur asks harshly, daring to step closer. The witch flinches, but he holds his ground and doesn’t answer. He takes another step. He sneers, “Why haven’t you killed me yet, Witch?”

The witch's voice is cold and smooth, a direct contrast to the burning fear in his eyes and the shaking of his raised hand. “I haven’t killed you because I don’t want to.”

Arthur lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t play innocent with me. I can see your evil plainly.”

“You need to have your eyes checked, then.” Arthur is taken aback by the snide remark. Witches never responded like that. The witch shifts again, minutely, to further block Arthur from the door. “There is no evil in magic.”

“Really?” Arthur said, condescending. “Every witch I have met has tried to kill me.”

“That is because you hunt them down and burn them in fields!” the witch cries, voice breaking with emotion. “They are scared. Terrified. And fear always leads to violence.”

Arthur has nothing to say to that. He’s right, of course, damn him. It was one of Arthur’s biggest doubts. He has often wondered how many witches they burned only lashed out because he and Uther had pushed them to such lengths. But Arthur lets none of this show on his face, keeping his features as cold as stone. 

The witch's shoulders are shaking, and his eyes are shining with unshed tears. How much has he lost, Arthur wonders, in Uther’s crusade against magic?

“Please.” the witch says, voice quiet, “I will surrender. I will release Uther, and you can burn me at sundown, but please, you have to let him go.”

Before Arthur can ask what he means, a voice cries “No!” and the closet doors fly open. A boy, a _child_ , no more than seven or eight, bursts out of the closet and rams himself into the witch's legs. He clutches the witch's leg, and looks at Arthur with such a powerful fear that Arthur stumbles backwards.

“Mordred!” the witch cries in panic. He drops to his knees and tries desperately to shove the yelling child back into the closet.

“No!” the child yells again, staring straight at Arthur with very green eyes. “You can’t take my daddy! I won’t allow it!”

Daddy. The witch has a child. A child who looks just like him, with dark hair and pale skin. That is what he had been protecting. His child. Arthur is frozen with shock and horror. His _child_. This man has a child, and he was going to give up his life to protect him. Arthur feels sick, all of a sudden, and with a pang of fear, he realizes that he has no idea what to do.

The witch pulls the child close, cradling the boy against his chest, one hand supporting him and the other holding the back of his head. He is still on the ground, watching Arthur with wide, terrified eyes. They stare at each other for a long time. Neither move. Mordred hiccups into his father’s neck.

“Please,” the witch, finally, repeats. His eyes fall to the floor. “You’ve already taken my wife, please don’t take my son, too.”

Arthur’s going to be sick. There is so much grief and pain in the witch's eyes. That, coupled with the horrifying meaning of his words, makes Arthur almost bend over in guilt. He thought they were doing the right thing, that they were ridding the world of a terrible evil, but they had taken a mother from her child. They had destroyed a family. And even this man, who had so much to lose by letting Arthur and Unter survive and continue hunting, had not caused either of them any harm.

Arthur doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

He knows what he is going to do before he can truly put it into words. He sheaths his knife and holds his hands up in a gesture of peace. “You need to get out of here,” he says.

The witch looks at him in shock, a tiny spark of hope flaring in his eyes. He stands quickly, almost falling over before regaining his balance. He rushes past Arthur and hurries down the stairs.

Arthur stands quietly for a moment, unsure of what to do. His father is still in the other room; probably still magically bound to the wall. How will he explain this to his father, he wonders.

He can’t bare to face his father now, though. He is still horrified by the realization of what Uther’s blind rage had done. He wanders down stairs. Maybe, he thinks, he can still see the witch and his son running down the road. But when he goes downstairs, the witch is still standing in the open door, facing out. Mordred is back on the ground but still hanging on the witch's leg.

“What are you still doing here?” Arthur asks.

The witch jumps and looks over his shoulder. He only barely relaxes when he sees it is Arthur. “I forgot to say thank you,” he says, and Arthur wants to smack him for putting himself in danger for something as simple and unnecessary as a thanks. He turns back, gazing at the dusty road in front of the house. “Freya only wanted Mordred to be safe. She wanted to see him grow up happy and not live in fear like most of us do.”

“Freya,” Arthur repeats. “Was she your wife?”

The witch only barely nods. “It was almost a year ago. You may not remember.”

“No. I remember them all.” It’s hard to forget the image of a person screaming in agony as fire licked the meat off their bones. “I just didn’t know her name.” He didn’t know any of there names.

The witch swallows and turns to face him, this time fully. “My name is Merlin,” he says, and Arthur understands the trust it belays. Then, like the sun emerging from behind clouds after years of rain, a thin smile lights up the witch's face. “Morgana was right. You are kind.”

Arthur freezes again in shock. It feels like someone dumped ice water over his head. Morgana. Suddenly, he is sixteen again and pushing his half-sister out of the house before Uther can find her and do what he would have done to any other witch.

“Morgana,” he repeats, breathing the name with awe. “You know Morgana? How is she? Is she okay?”

Merlin’s smile widens. “She dreams of you,” he says gently. “She says that you are nothing like your father, and that you will put an end to the fear. She looks forward to the day that she can return and greet you as family again.”

Arthur drops his head and tries not to cry. He misses her. He misses her sassy comments and rebellious attitude. He misses the way she would go head on with Uther and voice any disagreements Arthur himself couldn’t. He misses her kindness and empathy. He misses his sister, and it doesn’t hurt any less than it did before.

“Will you-” Arthur has to swallow, throat feeling too dry. “Will you tell her I said ‘Hi?’ And that I miss her?”

Merlin’s smile gentles. “Of course I will.” Then he reaches down and pulls Mordred into his arms again. He reaches over with his free hand and touches Arthur’s chest. Arthur tenses, especially when Merlin says a phrase in the old language of magic. “A blessing,” he tells Arthur, “for luck and happiness.”

Arthur believes him. “Thank you.”

“Until we meet again,” Merlin says, bowing his head in farewell. Then he walks away.

Arthur watches him until he is no more than a speck in the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. This is a bit darker than I usually write, but I was in a mood.
> 
> My tumblr is anapwouldbegreat if you like cats and dumb jokes.


End file.
